


sense in searching

by explodinganyway



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, F/F, prose, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explodinganyway/pseuds/explodinganyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You try to pretend that your tears are somehow directed at the whole world, at the year you’ve been through and not—well. It always comes back to her, doesn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	sense in searching

**Author's Note:**

> sorry sorry sorry sorry I needed to do something though and this is all I could coherently manage. title from 'atlantis' by ellie goulding

You’re good at pushing your own feelings deep into your chest. It’s just something you’ve always felt is necessary for your own self preservation, not to mention others. You’re good at ignoring the feelings in your chest and going with your head; used to long pep-talks that start with ‘you don’t need someone as much as you think you do’ and end with, ‘so just ignore it’ and you’re so good at it that you prepare now. You don’t start the drive up to see Helena until you’ve denied anything between you well enough for it to be ignored. You’re good at this, you’re practised at this and so you wish, more than anything you’ve ever wished before, that it could be what stopped you this time. You wished it could have been your own stupid shy and professional actions that killed—well, nothing. You supposed if you made it up then…you couldn’t have killed it. You’re good at pushing people away for your own safety, and even theirs. You are not good at letting people go; you are not good at watching them, step by careful step, move further away.

-

So you push. Hard.

-

And you make it almost halfway back to the warehouse before you’re out of the car and screaming at the sky, at Pete, at fucking Nate, at her. Doesn’t it always come back to her? You try to pretend that your tears are somehow directed at the whole world, maybe some sadness still in your system from losing Leena, for the year you’ve been through and not—

Well. It always comes back to her, doesn’t it?

-

Your lungs feel like they are filled with water you can’t cry fast enough and god if you didn’t feel so completely spent and tired then you would be embarrassed at your actions, at the way Pete is sitting in the driver’s seat, watching you like if he does anything else you’ll break and—well, somehow without the promise of her you feel so much less solid and you wish your body would pick between the crushing weight and the wispy half-presence you can’t help feeling. Maybe you are turning into water from your chest outwards, a crushing ocean barely holding its form. You think that would be a good way to go if you can’t—well, growing old with someone wasn’t ever going to be for you, was it. 

Everything feels as insubstantial as your body; the door of the inn, Pete’s hug and the way his words, whispered into your ear didn’t register, just float past like a breeze off the water. Your bed doesn’t feel right; too cold and hard for your salty ocean self and you get up to pace after an hour staring at numbers that won’t change enough for you. If you could go back and change the past you would but—well, time travel isn’t possible anyway. Not really.

-

You don’t know why you feel numb on the ends of your fingers, just that you had been expecting something from Helena that wasn’t a pat on the pack for a job well done, a casual invite for coffee. You remember meeting her with your gun aimed at her head, her fingers brushing yours, her smile as she pinned you to the ceiling. You think about your hand around her throat, how you felt her breathing and it looked like God and then, you think about something you can never quite remember right.

(You think about her face on the other side of a barrier and her smile imprinted on the backs of your eyelids and—well, a memory like that doesn’t just fade away.)

-

You see two shadows on the other side of your door, watch as they awkwardly shuffle closer to and away from each other. Watch as they still, turn around and walk away. You don’t notice your fingers scratching at your chest until Claudia is far from your room and you wonder why, when you fingers have dragged themselves low enough, you hear the roar of the waves, a call of a seagull. 

(Pete knocks on your door later but you’re too busy imagining Helena’s fingers as she writes, the way she sucks on the end of her pen, her hand running through her hair, over and over, like waves cresting. You don’t answer and, eventually, he goes to bed.)  
You never meant to make a home in Helena’s chest, never meant to burrow between ribs and sinew to look for her heart. You thought she wanted you there, thought that maybe she was inside you as well but—

your heart is salt water and seaweed, and it’s obvious now that you were never home. Maybe you set up camp in HG Wells’ mind but tents aren’t much good at lasting storms

-

(and gosh you two were a beautiful one)

-

-

You just wish that—

well,

you know happily ever after doesn’t exist.

-

(Endless wonder seems kind of pointless now.)

-

-


End file.
